


Calling, for the last time.

by lokiloo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, bisected character death, major angst, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:59:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokiloo/pseuds/lokiloo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you think this has a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calling, for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to stlinskihale and memekon for helping me out with this!
> 
> Inspired by listening to Now Now on repeat for 3784843 hours.
> 
> PLEASE BE WARNED This is not a happy story, there is a lot of graphic description and I don't want anyone going in without fair warning.

He’s running.  
  
He’s running, and he can’t catch his breath, and what air he’s getting burns like fire in his lungs.  
  
He’s running, through the dark, cuts stinging on his face and fingers numb from cold. His feet pound into the snow, and to his ears it sounds far too loud. The moon is hidden behind the black clouds of night, and his eyes are frozen open in the cold. He can hear the rumble of ATVs in the distance, like far off monsters in the night, and he is helpless but to just. Keep. Running.  
  
So it’s jarring when he runs into the clearing, stumblingly over a gnarled root and crashing to the ground like a thrown rag doll. He scrambles for purchase, a nail catching on something and tearing off with a flash of pain. He manages to get up, manages to push himself to his knees.  
  
The moon peeks into the night for a moment, then- as if emboldened- bursts through the clouds,, illuminating the clearing with an almost blinding light.  
  
Stiles looks ahead, and like a punch to the gut, he can’t breathe.

 

In a completely bizarre turn of events, the beginning of their relationship is with hand holding.  
  
It’s maybe 3, 4 In the morning; they’d just killed a rather terrifying wraith, all vengeful cold and screaming terror. Stiles is, pun intended and not, bone dead tired. He’s leaning against Derek’s car, arms wrapped tight against his body, waiting for the pack to come back from burying the corpse. He doesn’t mean to sleep, doesn’t even mean to close his eyes; he’s shivering one moment, and the next Derek is shaking him awake.  
  
“Stiles,” He says, and Stiles is fatigued enough to imagine a worried tone in that voice.

“What, no, I’m awake-“ He mumbles, and he’s distracted by the warmth of Derek’s hand through his thin hoodie and shirt. He wants to have that hand near his heart, make the heat work its way through his limbs and burst from the tips of his fingers.  
  
Derek moves, then, pushes Stiles into his car, and honestly it’s a good thing. A preventive measure, keeping Stiles from doing something stupid. And dangerous. There’s a problem, though: the seat’s comfortable, and Derek’s heater works. Stiles is asleep in less than a minute.  
  
When he wakes, it’s because Derek had jerked the car onto a highway shoulder, the jarring of the rumble strip jerking Stiles awake. He has a noise halfway out of his mouth, ready to protest, but it’s silenced by the sight of Derek shrugging his jacket off.  
  
“Take this,” He says, draping warm leather across Stile’s torso. It’s almost sinful, the way the heat just burrows itself into his skin, and with a shock Stiles realizes just how cold he is.  
  
Derek watches him, with big blue eyes, and Stiles feels his move of its own accord. Moves itself off his frozen lap to meet Derek’s.  
  
“’s cold,” He whispers, and Derek doesn’t reply, but his hands move to encase Stiles’- makes his fingers clench, his bones nearly creak.  
  
They don’t say anything, the rest of the drive home. But one of Stiles’ hands is very, very warm.

 

There’s a cold in his body that has nothing to do with the chill. It snakes around his lungs like a curl of frost, light and biting and turning his skin into a fragile mess of broken lines.  
  
There’s a cold in his body, and on some level he recognizes it as shock. He should find somewhere else to be- should find a blanket, shelter, food, a drink. He should call an ambulance. He should sit down. He should turn around, look away, do something that isn’t this.  
  
He can’t, though. He’s physically unable to move a single inch. His mouth tastes like blood. There’s a sound like a train through his ears. The biting cold against his cheek means he must be crying.  
  
All he can process is red. Deep, terrible red against white so clean it’s blinding.  
  
And something else.

 

The first kiss they share is chaste.  And, uh, his first kiss.  
  
Stiles is reading everything he can about Sirens, and getting frustrated over the completely ridiculous variations of what they reportedly look like. And that his Google ads apparently think he’s a security firm.  
  
Derek is sitting next to him, flipping through- of all things- a home improvement magazine.  
  
It’s actually incredibly endearing, Derek’s effort into furbishing his new-new apartment is. He’s determined to make it an actual home, going so far as order a living room set from Ikea. From where Stiles sits, he thinks He can see him browsing throw pillows.  
  
“See anything you like?” Stiles ventures, watching Derek pause and look up. He actually thumbs back a few pages, leans over to place the magazine closer.  
  
Stiles sees pages of entertainment centers, and Derek’s finger points to one that has the perfect making for housing a giant flat screen, game consoles, and even a bunch of books. And Stiles feels his heart jump, because he remembers joking with Derek about his apartment being too barren for Stiles to stay over. And Derek had asked, maybe a bit too seriously what would make him stay.  
  
‘A flat screen,’ He’d teased. ‘The biggest one ever. With a bunch of games and movies.’  
  
Derek’s face is passive, giving nothing away. Except that Stiles has been watching that face for months, and he can see how nervous he is right now. Derek understands what he’s saying. And he knows Stiles knows it too.  
  
There is nothing can stop him from pulling the werewolf close and kissing the breath out of him.

 

Stiles looks across the clearing, to where a tall dead oak tree stands defiant amongst the pines. Its branches strike high against the dark, starry sky, cradling them inside the confines of a brittle prison.  From the branches hangs a rope. From the rope hangs Derek.  
  
Half of him.  
  
His arms are tied, gravity stretching him down. Red pools from body, deep and rich, spreading around him till the snow eventually turns pink. His guts spill forth, trailing the floor and swaying in the light breeze. Stiles thinks, on some other level, of Scott’s twelfth birthday party- bright strands of crepe paper, hanging torn after a day roughhousing. Derek’s head leans against one outstretched arm, his eyes wide, mouth open in a scream.  
  
Stiles throws up.

 

Their first time is at Derek’s apartment, on Saturday night.  
  
They’d talked about it, of course- Derek refused to do anything without Stiles’ explicit consent, and Stiles was honest enough for both of them to admit he was a bit nervous. But in the end, it was…Great. More than great.  
  
Derek lays on the bed, all hard muscle and soft skin, hands roaming Stiles’ ribs. Stiles is completely enraptured by Derek’s throat, listening the moans and pants that occur each time he dragged his teeth across, or sucked a mark.  
  
Clothes had been ditched for some time. Skin was pressed against hot skin, legs entwined as they’d writhed against each other. It was slow, and heavy, and everything about it made Stiles’ heart burst. Hands grasping each other,  kisses rushed and unhurried at the same time, rocking back and forth until finally their bodies spilled.  
  
Derek held him close, pressing open kisses to any skin he could find. Their hands still tangled together, and Stiles laughed at how utterly perfect everything is.

 

The pack shows up to find Stiles covered in blood.  
  
They find Derek’s body halved, but pushed together like badly fitting jigsaw pieces- Stiles holding his head in his lap, petting hair absently with stiffened fingers. The air is choked with the smell of blood, fresh penny scent drowning out everything else.  
  
“We have to wait,” He whispers, voice croaking with the toll of thick screams. “He’s- he’s healing, he needs time, he need’s-“  
  
An owl hoots in the distance, then another. Derek’s eyes are still open, still blank with fear.  
  
Scott’s eyes meet Stiles’- a deep red, unnaturally bright.  
  
Stiles bows his head with a sob.


End file.
